


Letters to Fiddleford

by NinetyWrites



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Grunkle Ford's Portal Adventures, also- fiddauthor for a sentence, but at the same time, it feels weird to tag relationships since it's just him by himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinetyWrites/pseuds/NinetyWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February 18, 1982</p><p>Dearest Fiddleford,</p><p>I regret to inform you that you were right all along.</p><p>(Ford writes Fidds letters while in the multiverse for coping reasons.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to Fiddleford

**Author's Note:**

> What’s that? I finally came off my two-month writer’s block? Yeah! Wonderful prompt courtesy of irkensorcerer.tumblr.com. Sentimentality dimension from 'like they were a perfect fit' by hapful- check it out!

February 18, 1982

Dearest Fiddleford,

I regret to inform you that you were right all along. You are most likely already aware of this, but I just wanted to make it clear that I now accept it. You were suspicious of Bill from the beginning. In your words, “he's a demon, Stanford. I'm fairly certain that ill intentions are part of the definition of the word ‘demon.’”

Unfortunately, I didn't listen. If I had, I wouldn't be writing this. But here we are. If you're confused about what I mean when I say this, allow me to enlighten you as to what happened after you left the project.

Could we discuss that? You leaving the project, that is. I thought I'd lost you, you know. Your eyes were so empty for what felt like _hours_. I thought you were gone. When you woke up and you started talking, you weren't making any sense, and your eyes still had that same blank stare. Truth be told, it almost felt worse than when you were ~~limp~~   ~~ _lifeless_~~ unconscious. Naturally, when you asked me to destroy my life's work, I was a bit taken aback. It was my _life's work_ , after all. It took some time (and, admittedly, a toll on your memories) for me to realize that there may have been some significance in what you had said.

Once I had, I confronted Bill about the matter as soon as I could. When he reacted by admitting to betraying me and showing me a glimpse of what he planned to bring to our world, I understood. I now know what it must have been like for you when your head was submerged in that literal nightmare for half a minute. I now know that and more. But I digress. I knew something had to be done about Bill, and it had to be done fast. Once again, I was desperate, only this time, I didn’t call on a demon for help. I called the only person I thought I could trust at the time. (Now, though, I’m not sure I can trust anyone.)

Did I ever tell you about Stanley? I may have mentioned him from time to time, but in case you have forgotten (as you may very well have, since he was never crucial to our lives in Gravity Falls), Stanley is my twin brother. The whole time we were growing up, but especially later on, the whole family knew Stanley wouldn't go anywhere or do anything with his life. We all did, we just pretended not to know it and waited for him to show a sign that he would make something of himself. He never did, and he couldn't face that on his own, so he made sure that he dragged me down with him. I was going to do so much, I was going to change the world, but he took all of my opportunities from me.

In my darkest hour, it didn’t matter either way. He was the only person I could remotely count on to assist me with my plan to hide the journals. When he arrived, we got into a rather large fight. In the scuffle, he unwittingly (characteristic of him, I may add) pushed me into the portal. That was two weeks ago.

When I first arrived here, in the nightmare realm, it was alarming, to say the very least. A more realistic description would be that my already-slipping sanity felt like it would fade completely if I made one false move. Over the past two weeks, I’ve learned various survival strategies that have already saved my life more than once. I’ve had some downtime occasionally, but this is the first time I’ve thought to do anything with it- writing to you.

If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to indefinitely continue my correspondence with you. I’ll most likely be trapped here for the remainder of my existence, and I’d like to hold onto _something_  from the past.

Until I write again,

Stanford Pines

P.S.: I am aware that you cannot receive these letters. This is mostly to help me process what’s going on around me. My sanity’s not gone yet.

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

How long has it been since I last wrote? I believe it’s been a month. It’s a bit hard to tell these days.

Not much has happened since that time. Things have fallen into a rather steady routine. Allow me to illustrate:

Ghqhe-rise: start moving. I most likely didn’t sleep much (or at all) the previous night, so ‘waking up’ isn’t guaranteed to happen now. Game is hard to find in the first part of the day, so I generally don’t look for it.

A few hours later: be chased by some creature of incomprehensible horror, although the horror is becoming increasingly comprehensible every day. I’m not sure whether or not that development is positive, but it’s a development, which is better than staying still, right? Most days, I only manage to outrun the creature, but if I kill it, that takes care of food for the rest of the day. How convenient!

Midday: if I didn’t kill the beast from before, this is generally when I hunt. The second day after I came to this dimension, I found a weapon not unlike a crossbow. I’ve been using it when I hunt, and I’ve figured out how to make arrows when I need more. The survival training we did around the time we built the bunker paid off, because I’ve only failed two hunting trips in the time I’ve been here, and after those times, I managed to find native plants that didn’t sear my skin at the touch (unlike a plant that looks deceptively like chamomile. I’ve learned not to trust things that resemble tea anymore.)

Whenever I have secured meat: Find a small clearing or municipal camp (there are so many people in my same situation that, yes, they have those) and start gathering firewood. I go through the basic process of cooking the meat once I've started the fire, and then I eat. Since this is my only meal of the day, I generally don't share, but if I'm at a camp like the kind I mentioned earlier and I see someone starving, I give them a portion of the meat. I'm not heartless.

After eating: pack up and keep moving. I don't want to be stuck in this same dimension forever, and I won't be able to find a way to another by staying in the same spot. I might get attacked in the afternoon, but it's less likely than in the morning, and I'm better equipped to fight once I've eaten.

Ghqhe-set: Set up camp. If there's a municipal one nearby, I'm in luck; if there isn't, I have to find a place on my own that isn't inhabited by monsters, which is more challenging than it seems, but not too difficult once you've had enough practice. I'll most likely stay up for hours keeping watch, but some sleep might get a hold of me eventually.

There you go. That's the basic schedule: a day in the life, if you will. Not much has been happening, so I may not write as frequently. If that schedule changes, expect to hear from me, but if it's disrupted by something important, expect to not hear from me until after things get back to normal, since I may not be able to write during that time. On that note, I bid you farewell for now.

Until I write again,

Stanford Pines

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

I thought I’d write to let you know that I just led a rebellion against a cruel, tyrannical ruler in the Fourth Dimension. I suppose I should have mentioned that I made it out of that original one. That must have been years ago.

I didn’t lead it alone, though. I’ve made an ally in a woman named Janice Green. She’s one of the bravest, strongest, and more importantly, kind and loyal people I’ve encountered in my travels. I believe I’ve found a friend in her.

It was a long fight, but after we achieved victory, most soldiers went back to their loved ones. When Janice turned to me and asked if I had anyone to go home to, for some peculiar reason, even though it’s now been several years, my thoughts when directly to you.

My time here has given me an opportunity to think a lot about what happened, and although I may have at the time, I don’t blame you for your decision to leave. You did what you believed was the right thing, and I can’t fault you. I’m sorry I ever did.

And another thing- I miss you. This may be the first time I’m admitting it to myself, but I do. Every time I see a laptop that could have been yours in our dimension, every time I hear as much as a note on any instrument that remotely resembles your banjo, this _feeling_  washes over me until I’m incapable of thinking of anything except your smile, the one you always got when we made a breakthrough, the one you wore when you told me you were glad to be with me again, after all those years after college. I’m not quite sure what it is. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s regret. I’ll probably never know.

In any case, it won’t do me any good. You and I both know we’ll never meet again, so what’s the point in prolonging the hope that we might? I’m resigned to my fate of never being able to return home, but if I did have any hope, my sole motivation to return would be to see your face again, at least once. It would be enough.

Yours truly,

Stanford Pines

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

Yesterday, I participated in the legendary gladiatorial competition of Globnar and lived to tell the tale. The winner gets a time wish. With one, you can do anything you wish without causing any paradoxes, no matter how impossible the wish may be. I lost (and, miraculously, I’m still alive). If I had won, you would have known already, since I’d be back in Gravity Falls. I thought I’d report the defeat.

It’s been some time since I last wrote, but I still miss you. Just for the sake of taking notes on what I think of in here.

Yours truly,

Stanford PInes

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

You won’t believe what kind of dimension I just got out of. You probably would’ve appreciated it, at least during your first five minutes there. The only sounds that could be made were those of a banjo. Speech, vehicles, wind- if it made a sound, that sound came out as the pluck of a banjo string. At first, it was, admittedly, amusing, but after a while of being unable to hear yourself think over twangs from every direction, it grew a bit maddening. I had to make a bargain with a Thelioid (never play a game of euchre with one) to get passage out of there, which was hardly an easy task, since my written Thelian is spotty, to be generous.

In any case, that predicament is over now. I hope things are alright at home. Say hello to Tate for me, if you get the chance.

Yours truly,

Stanford Pines

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

I just narrowly escaped a demonic cult’s appeasement ritual (which I would elaborate on if I had the words to describe the horror), and it reminded me to ask- why did you form that society? I got my hands on a calendar (through circumstances you don’t need to know) recently, so now I can say that I’ve understood for fifteen years now just how terrifying the other side of the portal is, but even after everything I’ve been through, I’ve never once considered erasing my memories. Perhaps it’s a difference in how the two of us process trauma. Perhaps it was that I was more accustomed to the unusual than you were. In any case, I’ve had a long time to think about it, and I still can’t quite put my finger on it.

So why? Why did you do it?

Yours truly,

Stanford PInes

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

It’s been five years since I asked you about the Society of the Blind Eye’s formation. I’m still puzzled as to your rationale when you made that particular decision, but that’s not why I’m writing to you today.

I fear that my mental state may be declining even further. Some days, I remember these letters, and I get delusions that I sent them to you through the mail, and I become slightly upset that you never write back to me, especially since I’ve been writing you on a fairly frequent basis for the past twenty years. Then, I look around and remember my situation, but the fact that I’m forgetting? It’s disturbing at best.

Ah, forget it. I don’t have time to investigate the causes of this behavior. I have survival to focus on.

-Stanford Pines

* * *

Fiddleford,

I’m writing this because, well, I needed to write? Yes, I know it sounds strange, but it’s just one of those times again where I have to write for grounding purposes. So. How have things been in Gravity Falls? Any interesting findings recently? How’s Tate? Are personal computers still as much of a waste of time as they were back in the day? I think we both know the answer to that question is a definite yes.

Alright, I’ve gotten things sorted out. Thanks, old buddy.

-Ford

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

I’ve told you about the wanted posters of me that Bill has put in every corner of the multiverse, haven’t I? I must have, because there have been bounty hunters on my trail ever since I fell through the portal 26 years ago. I had to outrun one just a few hours ago, and although I’m in fairly good physical condition (aside from my weight, obviously), I barely avoided the bastard because I stumbled and fell in the middle of the chase, and it took me a startling amount of time to get back up.

Maybe I’m getting too old for this.

-Stanford

* * *

Dearest Fiddleford,

Although I’m loath to admit it, I tend to be a bit on the sentimental side. You know this. (In fact, while we’re on the subject of sentimentality- just last week, I narrowly escaped a dimension where dearly-loved objects are worth more than gold or prized jewels. Some more savory Heidans found a picture I have of Stanley and I on a boat we worked on restoring when we were younger, and I managed to get out with both the picture and my life, while they left with neither.) I’m writing you today because I just landed in Dimension Q*80^2, the dimension I arrived in right after I fell through the portal thirty years ago. Nothing’s changed here, and nothing’s changed with me. I know I’ll never be able to go back home, so it pains me slightly that I can return here but not to Gravity Falls. Even still, I know this is necessary, since I’d rather stay in this hellscape for as long as I have left than give Bill passage int

* * *

_ A blinding, white light fills the room, then flickers into nothing. The portal crackles with some kind of strange electricity, now in shambles, with pieces littering the basement. A man emerges from the other side. He walks out with even steps, and upon reaching a maroon journal with a golden, six-fingered hand on the cover, he picks it up and places it in his trench coat pocket, where it sits among countless letters written over a thirty-year span, all addressed to one person. _

_ “What? Who is that?” _

_ “The author of the journals… my brother.” _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you want to contact me, shoot me an ask at ninety-writes.tumblr.com! Constructive criticism is, as usual, always appreciated.


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